You were my poem.
You were in the words that slipped through my fingers
And onto a blank page.
You were my free verse
because only the best things are free and without structure.
You were my prose
Delicately painting a picture of forever in my head
That would last long after I set the piece down.
Even though you have left
You are still my poem.
You are the unfinished ideas
And forgotten words
You are the theme that was a little too forced.
You are in the poem somewhere in the middle of my notebook
That I can’t figure out how to